Dinner was surreal, exotic and downright mysterious, in a dreamy submarine tableau. Pirate Jenny was reminded of the dinner scene aboard the Nautilus with Captain Nemo as host. She sampled seafood delicacies never before encountered. But in the end she decided to fill up on some delicious chowder.
Kit suggested Anchor steam beer to go with it. She smiled, "You know best."
He was an elegant man in his sixties. Sliding into old age and frailty. High cheekbones, aquiline nose. Hollows instead of jowls. White hair exploding from a lozenge-shaped face like a Crab Nebula.
Tonight he wore a black sport coat over a black tunic. Very priestly.
"Mister Pico--"
"Kit, please."
"I'm worried about Johnny Luck. He doesn't answer at home."
"No idea on his where-abouts?"
"Only that he was going crabbing at Dutchman's."
"That place is dangerous."
"Yes. But he is quite experienced."
"Try phoning The Jolly Roger. Maybe Cap knows something."
*
The pub was popular with non-whites. The talk was easy and the drinks were cheap. Establishing a tab, however, would depend upon how Cap liked the cut of your jib. Upstairs was a warren of bedrooms known as The Pirate's Hideaway. The owner was a buxom quadroon woman named Hannah Ramirez. She served a zesty continental breakfast with Jamaican mountain java by the pot.
Johnny Luck and his Cayman friend Cap had been diving mates until a mishap rendered the older man crippled from a case of the bends. Insurance compensation allowed Cap to open The Jolly Roger. The two friends loved to play domino. Pirate Jenny figured she might locate Johnny Luck without much further ado.
"Hello, Cap. This is Jen. Is my Rover there?"
"No, missy. Ain't seen 'im today."
"If he shows up can you call me?" She gave him Speedboat's cell number.
"Sure thing, missy."
"Luvya, mate. Bye."
*
In the meantime everyone had retired to Kit's den and library. They were admiring a framed lithograph of Thomas Hart Benton's poker scene from the broadway production of "A Streetcar Named Desire."
Kit was saying, "I found it wrapped in storage. Belonged to McEwan. The sad chap lost his wife to AIDS."
Pirate Jenny entered the room. "Oh my God! That's poor Mac's picture!"
"You knew him?"
"Of course I did. I flew his friends in from Key West."
Kit sighed. Gazing at the picture, he uttered, "McEwan and I were kindred spirits."
Monday, December 27, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
a night to remember
Misadventures were common at Dutchman's Jetty. After the curmudgeon died and his stout mansion was vacated by all, save a few Nazi ghosts (it could have been renovated into a splendid hotel; but no one wished to invest hard-earned money in what was now an eyesore surrounded by a wire fence), the jetty became an unofficial public pier. Its original purpose was to prevent beach erosion. Steadfastly it held the surf in check, causing waves to break violently against its embattled face. On its more peaceful side barnacles profited from tiny organisms seeking shelter from the deep. Stone crabs danced there like mambo kings and queens. At high tide the waves crashed across its craggy deck and could wash a person and fishing tackle into the sea. And there were rip-tides.
Behind the seawall the mansion kept baleful watch. Counting the dead, keeping score.
Massive stucco walls with thick wooden shutters covering magnificent stainglass windows and port-holes (good for signaling Unterzee Boots with flashing semaphor) had withstood many a hurricane. Coconuts would fly like cannonballs, smashing themselves into milky pulp. During the same storm that destroyed the lighthouse an entire tree was uprooted from the coconut grove on the south lawn. It slammed onto the roof, chipping away a clutch of Spanish tile. Island people sought refuge inside during big blows. They gathered in family huddles, setting up bedding and eating perishable foods, saving tinned fruit and meats for the hard days without electric power. At night as the storm clawed the sky the people sat in kerosine lanternlight. Wandering the darkened bowels of the house was verboten.
*
The storm howled with unabated fury, trying to pry a way inside. A warm salty draught caused the lantern to flicker. Mango watched the shadows leap high off the floor like calypso dancers and then sink low as if bending beneath a limbo bar.
"Momma, will the storm get us?"
"No, child. Chango is our friend."
Mango did not believe in Yoruban gods. It was nonsense for superstitious fools.
He reached this conclusion through no influence from his atheist father. Henri Bertrand had departed before Mango was born.
Like many bastards Mango spent childhood with a mythical father. His momma told stories of Henry Bertrand as if reading from a book of fairy tales.
*
Kids his age preferred not to play with him. He was a gimp, wandering moodily about on a club foot. A precocious chatterbox, he spoke mainly to himself. Telling himself stories he had made up.
Shadows beckoned that noisesome night like wraiths. And whispered like fabled sirens.
Temptation was strong. So he crept away from his mother and sisters and stole deep into the dead Dutchman's lair.
"Mango!" his mother shouted. "Mango, where are you? Come back!"
His sisters shivered with cold terror. They screamed, "Mango!"
They were certain he would wander into the maw of the black demon whose eyelids drooped to the floor. His body gobbled up, Mango's soul would walk the dim halls forever.
Behind the seawall the mansion kept baleful watch. Counting the dead, keeping score.
Massive stucco walls with thick wooden shutters covering magnificent stainglass windows and port-holes (good for signaling Unterzee Boots with flashing semaphor) had withstood many a hurricane. Coconuts would fly like cannonballs, smashing themselves into milky pulp. During the same storm that destroyed the lighthouse an entire tree was uprooted from the coconut grove on the south lawn. It slammed onto the roof, chipping away a clutch of Spanish tile. Island people sought refuge inside during big blows. They gathered in family huddles, setting up bedding and eating perishable foods, saving tinned fruit and meats for the hard days without electric power. At night as the storm clawed the sky the people sat in kerosine lanternlight. Wandering the darkened bowels of the house was verboten.
*
The storm howled with unabated fury, trying to pry a way inside. A warm salty draught caused the lantern to flicker. Mango watched the shadows leap high off the floor like calypso dancers and then sink low as if bending beneath a limbo bar.
"Momma, will the storm get us?"
"No, child. Chango is our friend."
Mango did not believe in Yoruban gods. It was nonsense for superstitious fools.
He reached this conclusion through no influence from his atheist father. Henri Bertrand had departed before Mango was born.
Like many bastards Mango spent childhood with a mythical father. His momma told stories of Henry Bertrand as if reading from a book of fairy tales.
*
Kids his age preferred not to play with him. He was a gimp, wandering moodily about on a club foot. A precocious chatterbox, he spoke mainly to himself. Telling himself stories he had made up.
Shadows beckoned that noisesome night like wraiths. And whispered like fabled sirens.
Temptation was strong. So he crept away from his mother and sisters and stole deep into the dead Dutchman's lair.
"Mango!" his mother shouted. "Mango, where are you? Come back!"
His sisters shivered with cold terror. They screamed, "Mango!"
They were certain he would wander into the maw of the black demon whose eyelids drooped to the floor. His body gobbled up, Mango's soul would walk the dim halls forever.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
johnny luck
The first time Pirate Jenny met Johnny Luck she was out on the mangrove flats in The Skipper's old Evinrude put-put skiff. And he was larking around in his dinky catamaran. Snorkle-diving. Combing the sea floor for odd beauty. This was a remote part of the island and so he enjoyed being naked. At the moment she passed by he was sipping a bottle of Red Stripe and reading a paperback novel about roustabout socialists by Nelson Algren.
"Yow!" He jumped up to retrieve his shorts.
She thought his genitals were the longest dangling male treasures she had ever seen. She laughed merrily and saluted him.
"Top o'the day."
"Ma'am--"
He wriggled into a pair of khaki jammers.
"How's your lighthouse coming along?"
"Excuse me?" His smile was pure sunshine.
"Sorry. We've never met, but I know who you are."
"And you are?"
"Friends call me Jen."
The attraction between them was immediate and enormous. She grinned and rubbed her perky sunburned nose. Her salt-stiffened hair rippled like flax in the breeze.
"You know about my restoration project. Cool."
"It is that, Johnny Luck."
*
The Cabo Verde lighthouse had been destroyed during a hurricane that plowed under several islands before slamming into the highlands of Cuba's Oriente Provence. The storm stalled and degenerated and then moodily swung up to harass the Florida Straits. By then the ancient lighthouse was carbonized rubble of timber and brick. One local pescadoro mourned it and said we would miss it as much as the Mediterranean world missed the wondrous lighthouse at Alexandria. His name was Johnny Luck. And, yes, he had received a European education.
Our man had no money to restore the lighthouse. He began searching for a grant from an international charity. He began asking for support from wealthy benefactors in the States. He was connected to well-intentioned people from Oxfam to Jimmy Carter's Habitat For Humanity. He had dated a Bangladeshi woman from UNESCO years ago in Paris. He rang her dire office in New Dehli and explained his situation. She wasn't able to arrange anything financially but she did offer some advice. He thanked her and asked her how she was getting along. She said her current lover was a civil servant who demanded cashews with his rice.
An island Quaker family visited him one day and said they would gladly donate labor.
The father was a rugged fifty-year-old and the mother was a stout woman able to heft large sacks of grain. The boy, a gangly teen, could hammer nails from any angle while maintaining one comfortable position. Thus he could go all day without tiring. They arrived early in chambray shirts and denim overalls, rolled up their sleeves, praised the Lord, and commenced work. Johnny Luck provided bread, cheese, ham and iced tea. Served with his uniquely endearing smile.
Johnny Luck found he did not need to buy most materials. He and his volunteers would scrounge around and root up fieldstone, seashell, even loose pavement. He could not acquire cement for free, but the Quaker man knew how to make lime. It made a splendid cheap substitute. A turtlediver came up with a mud kiln, and so they were able bake their bricks. Before long, he had kids scrambling around, filling carts with Nature's bounty.
*
"You know what it's beginning to resemble?"
"No. What?"
"Coit Tower."
A night wind gusted in from a troubled sea and sent the gentle island breezes aloft. Pirate Jenny lighted a citronella candle and a cone of sandlewood incense and hoped they would not be extinguished. Johnny Luck was serving one of his fish creations: amberjack sauteed in a large blackened pan with a blend of wine, herbs and spices. Food residue in the pan was part of the magic.
She hated fishbones. And was quite fussy about how a filet should be prepared. Oh how Doctor Suskind could filet anything from salmon and trout to red snapper, grouper and yellow tail. An orthopedic surgeon, he wielded a deft blade. Knife in one hand and a goddamned martini in the other.
"Did I ever tell you about Doctor Suskind?"
"Many, many times. Unsurpassed."
Without warning she began to sob. He drew her into a consoling hug. "There, there. Thinking of Ol' Doc Suskind, yeah, baby. Brought it all back. The Skipper and everything. I'm sorry, hush now."
"He had that heart-attack, out there fishing with--"
"It's The Skipper. I know. I know."
"They found him on a fucking bus bench!"
*
From her veranda they could view the cove. The water there was black as squid's ink. A footpath led down a hillside through pearly sand and whispering seagrapes to the pier. Wavelets slapped at the timbers and were beginning to show foam. In the far, far distance the powerful combers of the Caribbean rolled beneath a brilliant quarter moon.
He handed her a plate with sizzling lemony amberjack filet.
"No bones." His smile was infectious. Again.
"I trust you."
You should do as my mother, he had told her. Honor the feast day of Saint Blaze. Go to Mass and the priest will place crossed candles by your throat and bless you. After that there is no danger of choking on a fish bone.
But I'm not Catholic!
"We're in for a blow," she said, observing clouds scudding past the moon, whose sharp scythe resembled the prow of a Viking ship beset by a capricious storm.
He made no comment until he got the record player working.
"Listen to this," he said. "I found it at Ben Gunn's music shop. An old Judy Collins."
"Pirate Jenny!"
*
Beneath his deconstructing dreadlocks Johnny Luck's ebony face shown like a holiday lantern.
Tarbutton eyes danced with unending mirth. This joyous attitude earned him a cornucopia of small fortunes each bright day.
The fish melted in her mouth. Nary a bone.
So delighted was she, she blew him a kiss.
"Yow!" He jumped up to retrieve his shorts.
She thought his genitals were the longest dangling male treasures she had ever seen. She laughed merrily and saluted him.
"Top o'the day."
"Ma'am--"
He wriggled into a pair of khaki jammers.
"How's your lighthouse coming along?"
"Excuse me?" His smile was pure sunshine.
"Sorry. We've never met, but I know who you are."
"And you are?"
"Friends call me Jen."
The attraction between them was immediate and enormous. She grinned and rubbed her perky sunburned nose. Her salt-stiffened hair rippled like flax in the breeze.
"You know about my restoration project. Cool."
"It is that, Johnny Luck."
*
The Cabo Verde lighthouse had been destroyed during a hurricane that plowed under several islands before slamming into the highlands of Cuba's Oriente Provence. The storm stalled and degenerated and then moodily swung up to harass the Florida Straits. By then the ancient lighthouse was carbonized rubble of timber and brick. One local pescadoro mourned it and said we would miss it as much as the Mediterranean world missed the wondrous lighthouse at Alexandria. His name was Johnny Luck. And, yes, he had received a European education.
Our man had no money to restore the lighthouse. He began searching for a grant from an international charity. He began asking for support from wealthy benefactors in the States. He was connected to well-intentioned people from Oxfam to Jimmy Carter's Habitat For Humanity. He had dated a Bangladeshi woman from UNESCO years ago in Paris. He rang her dire office in New Dehli and explained his situation. She wasn't able to arrange anything financially but she did offer some advice. He thanked her and asked her how she was getting along. She said her current lover was a civil servant who demanded cashews with his rice.
An island Quaker family visited him one day and said they would gladly donate labor.
The father was a rugged fifty-year-old and the mother was a stout woman able to heft large sacks of grain. The boy, a gangly teen, could hammer nails from any angle while maintaining one comfortable position. Thus he could go all day without tiring. They arrived early in chambray shirts and denim overalls, rolled up their sleeves, praised the Lord, and commenced work. Johnny Luck provided bread, cheese, ham and iced tea. Served with his uniquely endearing smile.
Johnny Luck found he did not need to buy most materials. He and his volunteers would scrounge around and root up fieldstone, seashell, even loose pavement. He could not acquire cement for free, but the Quaker man knew how to make lime. It made a splendid cheap substitute. A turtlediver came up with a mud kiln, and so they were able bake their bricks. Before long, he had kids scrambling around, filling carts with Nature's bounty.
*
"You know what it's beginning to resemble?"
"No. What?"
"Coit Tower."
A night wind gusted in from a troubled sea and sent the gentle island breezes aloft. Pirate Jenny lighted a citronella candle and a cone of sandlewood incense and hoped they would not be extinguished. Johnny Luck was serving one of his fish creations: amberjack sauteed in a large blackened pan with a blend of wine, herbs and spices. Food residue in the pan was part of the magic.
She hated fishbones. And was quite fussy about how a filet should be prepared. Oh how Doctor Suskind could filet anything from salmon and trout to red snapper, grouper and yellow tail. An orthopedic surgeon, he wielded a deft blade. Knife in one hand and a goddamned martini in the other.
"Did I ever tell you about Doctor Suskind?"
"Many, many times. Unsurpassed."
Without warning she began to sob. He drew her into a consoling hug. "There, there. Thinking of Ol' Doc Suskind, yeah, baby. Brought it all back. The Skipper and everything. I'm sorry, hush now."
"He had that heart-attack, out there fishing with--"
"It's The Skipper. I know. I know."
"They found him on a fucking bus bench!"
*
From her veranda they could view the cove. The water there was black as squid's ink. A footpath led down a hillside through pearly sand and whispering seagrapes to the pier. Wavelets slapped at the timbers and were beginning to show foam. In the far, far distance the powerful combers of the Caribbean rolled beneath a brilliant quarter moon.
He handed her a plate with sizzling lemony amberjack filet.
"No bones." His smile was infectious. Again.
"I trust you."
You should do as my mother, he had told her. Honor the feast day of Saint Blaze. Go to Mass and the priest will place crossed candles by your throat and bless you. After that there is no danger of choking on a fish bone.
But I'm not Catholic!
"We're in for a blow," she said, observing clouds scudding past the moon, whose sharp scythe resembled the prow of a Viking ship beset by a capricious storm.
He made no comment until he got the record player working.
"Listen to this," he said. "I found it at Ben Gunn's music shop. An old Judy Collins."
"Pirate Jenny!"
*
Beneath his deconstructing dreadlocks Johnny Luck's ebony face shown like a holiday lantern.
Tarbutton eyes danced with unending mirth. This joyous attitude earned him a cornucopia of small fortunes each bright day.
The fish melted in her mouth. Nary a bone.
So delighted was she, she blew him a kiss.
Friday, December 17, 2010
luck's tor part five
The Cabo Verde lighthouse was cobbled together by the Spanish at land's end of a verdant arm that flexed into the sea, much like Cape Cod. When the British took control of Santa Barbara they renamed it Saint James. The cape retained its melodic Spanish name due to bureaucratic oversight. The lighthouse received a facelift, financed by none other than Captain Morgan himself, with booty looted from galleons bound for the Azores. It stood sentinal for two centuries. Then came the Catagory 4 hurricane known as Hecate.
*
Above the nomadic dunes terra firma began with seagrape shrubs and Australian pines. A piedmont of wild Bermuda grass rose from a bed of coarse sand to overlook the cove. There was a stairway hewn from coquina, pocked and filled with living green.Twelve symbolic steps flanked by croton climbed to the base of the lighthouse.The keeper's cottage lay nestled in a floral chaos of hibiscus, oleander, gardenia and orchid. Its ancient walls were of white stucco and its roof was of Spanish tile.
Pirate Jenny unlatched the heavy wooden door and shoved it open.
Furnishings could have been those of Robinson Crusoe.
A fishnet hammock with navy bedding had been slung high enough to be free of anything worrisome that might crawl in and bite.
"Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum," Speedboat teased.
"You said it, sister."
"Yow! What's that?"
"Mangrove spider."
"Outta here!"
Like schoolgirls they scampered out, squealing and giggling. They paused at the foot of the lighthouse and gazed upward at its head, three stories above and awash now in a vermilion sky.
Pirate Jenny gave her new pal an elbow poke. "That spider didn't scare you."
"Naw. Not many things do. Dying does a little."
Of course, Pirate Jenny thought. Cancer. The woman has battled breast cancer.
"Let's go inside," she said, brightening. "I want to show you something."
Gingerly they stepped across the threshold. This scene was far different from the one inside the cottage. It was someone's secret garden.
"Lo behold!" Pirate Jenny pointed toward the flooring. In the dim light they observed a circular maze. A labyrinth, handpainted handlaid tiles.
"It's beautiful," Speedboat whispered, making the Sign of the Cross.
"My man Johnny Luck copied it from a book. It's from a place he once visited. Chartres Cathedral."
"This is fascinating," Speedboat said reverently. She knelt and touched the gateway with her finger.
Stifling a smirk, Pirate Jenny said, "It's not holy ground, dear."
"Art is holy."
*
"Is your man the keeper?"
"Heavens no. He's the builder."
"Who is the keeper? Where is he?"
"One never sees him. I think he's a ghost."
Speedboat rolled her eyes like Mantan Moreland in "King of the Zombies" and replied, "Oooh, spooky."
"You know, my honeyboy doesn't attend any church. But he is very spiritual."
"I'm anxious to meet him."
"Well look, it's getting on toward nightfall. We gotta get going."
Outside they looked up and saw that the great lantern already was throwing light toward the sealanes, a beacon from what was called Luck's Tor.
*
The women stumbled through dunes so precarious they thought they were wading in gypsum. Legs gobbled up to shin and calf. They stopped and stood in total starshine. Ever so awesome, the Milky Way arched overhead.
"The Bridge of Souls," Speedboat proclaimed.
Pirate Jenny clicked on a torch from her fanny-pouch. Following the cone of light they entered the sea-oats and familiar territory.
She exclaimed: "Up there! Our cabana, but I don't see him."
"Didn't you say he went crabbing?"
"Yes, but he would have returned by now."
"Maybe he gave up on us and went home."
"I suppose."
"Well then. I invite you to dinner with Kit and Kat. You can call your honeyboy from there."
*
Above the nomadic dunes terra firma began with seagrape shrubs and Australian pines. A piedmont of wild Bermuda grass rose from a bed of coarse sand to overlook the cove. There was a stairway hewn from coquina, pocked and filled with living green.Twelve symbolic steps flanked by croton climbed to the base of the lighthouse.The keeper's cottage lay nestled in a floral chaos of hibiscus, oleander, gardenia and orchid. Its ancient walls were of white stucco and its roof was of Spanish tile.
Pirate Jenny unlatched the heavy wooden door and shoved it open.
Furnishings could have been those of Robinson Crusoe.
A fishnet hammock with navy bedding had been slung high enough to be free of anything worrisome that might crawl in and bite.
"Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum," Speedboat teased.
"You said it, sister."
"Yow! What's that?"
"Mangrove spider."
"Outta here!"
Like schoolgirls they scampered out, squealing and giggling. They paused at the foot of the lighthouse and gazed upward at its head, three stories above and awash now in a vermilion sky.
Pirate Jenny gave her new pal an elbow poke. "That spider didn't scare you."
"Naw. Not many things do. Dying does a little."
Of course, Pirate Jenny thought. Cancer. The woman has battled breast cancer.
"Let's go inside," she said, brightening. "I want to show you something."
Gingerly they stepped across the threshold. This scene was far different from the one inside the cottage. It was someone's secret garden.
"Lo behold!" Pirate Jenny pointed toward the flooring. In the dim light they observed a circular maze. A labyrinth, handpainted handlaid tiles.
"It's beautiful," Speedboat whispered, making the Sign of the Cross.
"My man Johnny Luck copied it from a book. It's from a place he once visited. Chartres Cathedral."
"This is fascinating," Speedboat said reverently. She knelt and touched the gateway with her finger.
Stifling a smirk, Pirate Jenny said, "It's not holy ground, dear."
"Art is holy."
*
"Is your man the keeper?"
"Heavens no. He's the builder."
"Who is the keeper? Where is he?"
"One never sees him. I think he's a ghost."
Speedboat rolled her eyes like Mantan Moreland in "King of the Zombies" and replied, "Oooh, spooky."
"You know, my honeyboy doesn't attend any church. But he is very spiritual."
"I'm anxious to meet him."
"Well look, it's getting on toward nightfall. We gotta get going."
Outside they looked up and saw that the great lantern already was throwing light toward the sealanes, a beacon from what was called Luck's Tor.
*
The women stumbled through dunes so precarious they thought they were wading in gypsum. Legs gobbled up to shin and calf. They stopped and stood in total starshine. Ever so awesome, the Milky Way arched overhead.
"The Bridge of Souls," Speedboat proclaimed.
Pirate Jenny clicked on a torch from her fanny-pouch. Following the cone of light they entered the sea-oats and familiar territory.
She exclaimed: "Up there! Our cabana, but I don't see him."
"Didn't you say he went crabbing?"
"Yes, but he would have returned by now."
"Maybe he gave up on us and went home."
"I suppose."
"Well then. I invite you to dinner with Kit and Kat. You can call your honeyboy from there."
Thursday, December 16, 2010
mango
Before he lit out for the Dutchman's Johnny Luck checked the list of things needed for his restoration project. The Cabo Verde lighthouse was nearly rebuilt. Needing only ornamentation. Arrayed beside his office desk (a folding cocktail table) were items salvaged by his ragtag army of scavengers. The office was a lean-to cabana with a frond roof. He picked up a Prince Albert tobacco tin. A gimpy Creole boy named Mango had presented it to him. The birdcage chest swelled with pride. "For you," Mango explained. Then he skittered away on his club foot.
That tin became a place to stash little treasures. Gems and crystals, gold and silver. Jewelry and whatnots lost. Gone from their owners. Retrieved and now residing in a tobacco tin. Johnny Luck fingered the recent haul. Nothing aesthetically grand. Problem was, the kids didn't know what to look for when it came to the frills. Basic construction material they understood.
He opened a bottle of Red Stripe and sat back.
A canvas director's chair served as throne. He surveyed his balmy realm. The beer was cold. He poured a stream of it onto his head like shampoo, drenching his dreadlocks.
Watching Pirate Jenny in the distance, he exclaimed: "Jah-hovah!"
That tin became a place to stash little treasures. Gems and crystals, gold and silver. Jewelry and whatnots lost. Gone from their owners. Retrieved and now residing in a tobacco tin. Johnny Luck fingered the recent haul. Nothing aesthetically grand. Problem was, the kids didn't know what to look for when it came to the frills. Basic construction material they understood.
He opened a bottle of Red Stripe and sat back.
A canvas director's chair served as throne. He surveyed his balmy realm. The beer was cold. He poured a stream of it onto his head like shampoo, drenching his dreadlocks.
Watching Pirate Jenny in the distance, he exclaimed: "Jah-hovah!"
luck's tor part four
"Who's that down there? On the strand."
Johnny Luck pointed toward a person in black. Lean, sinewy like a man, with sun-bronzed shoulders, and wearing a wetvest and swimming trunks. Sloshing through ankle-deep foam.
Pirate Jenny lifted her eyepatch and pretended to employ her missing eye.
"Dunno, Mister Luck."
"Man or woman?"
The stranger's hair was long and white as refined sugar. Flowing rapids-like from beneath a floppy straw sombrero.
"Can't tell anything," Pirate Jenny blustered. "Avast, mate! Hand me me spyglass!"
"Aye aye."
"Beachcomber evidently. I'm going to get aquainted."
"Suit yourself. I'm about to go crabbing. The Dutchman's."
"OK, love."
*
It was a woman with glittering gray eyes who looked up and waved.
"Hello, pirate lass."
"Howdy. Friends call me Jen."
"Stinkers call me Speedboat."
"Where're you staying?"
"Yon big house."
"Ah, the old McEwan place."
"McEwan has been gone a long time."
"Oh, I know. I knew his wife. Bernice."
"It's owned now by my friends Kit and Kat."
"Like the candy?"
"Yup."
Johnny Luck pointed toward a person in black. Lean, sinewy like a man, with sun-bronzed shoulders, and wearing a wetvest and swimming trunks. Sloshing through ankle-deep foam.
Pirate Jenny lifted her eyepatch and pretended to employ her missing eye.
"Dunno, Mister Luck."
"Man or woman?"
The stranger's hair was long and white as refined sugar. Flowing rapids-like from beneath a floppy straw sombrero.
"Can't tell anything," Pirate Jenny blustered. "Avast, mate! Hand me me spyglass!"
"Aye aye."
"Beachcomber evidently. I'm going to get aquainted."
"Suit yourself. I'm about to go crabbing. The Dutchman's."
"OK, love."
*
It was a woman with glittering gray eyes who looked up and waved.
"Hello, pirate lass."
"Howdy. Friends call me Jen."
"Stinkers call me Speedboat."
"Where're you staying?"
"Yon big house."
"Ah, the old McEwan place."
"McEwan has been gone a long time."
"Oh, I know. I knew his wife. Bernice."
"It's owned now by my friends Kit and Kat."
"Like the candy?"
"Yup."
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
final approach
The motel he had in mind had been razed years ago. A hoagie shop now squatted in the middle of his destination. Wearily he sat on a bus bench advertising Coppertone. The familiar logo of the dog pulling the swimsuit bottom from the little girl had been revised for the Go Go Nineties.
Rhys-Jones watched the sun go down. A crimson ball of cotton. Green spots in his eyes. He drank the rest of the whiskey and watched the city lights come on. Palm fronds rattled above him. Then he fell over and passed out, thinking he was dead.
He dreamed of deliverance.
Borne high above storm clouds on the wings of his daughter's seaplane, soaring over blue thunderheads, he heard the motors throb with soothing rhythms as their propellers changed pitch and the overall drone. It was better than a mother's heartbeat. He felt safe and secure upon this surreal bosom of sound.
"Wake up, Skipper."
"Where are we, dollbaby?"
"Port bow. Cabo Verde Light."
He saw what was left of the old lighthouse. Rusted tension rods rose from charred rubble. They resembled the grasping talons of a hideous iron specter imprisoned in brick and mortar. Surviving timbers were rotted and gone to ground. He sighed. No one had rebuilt the lighthouse during his long absence in Mexico.
"Bad dream?"
"No. Good dream."
"We're almost there."
Their eyes matched the color of the clouds they were descending through. Gray now. Suddenly the wiper blades were swabbing rain from the windscreen.
"I love you, dollbaby."
"I love you too, Daddy."
The Albatross began its final approach homeward, banking wide, and humming from the depths of its great heart.
*
The Metro cop found the bum asleep on the Coppertone bench. Shoeless, pockets turned out. Odd crap strewn from a trampled knapsack. The cop whacked one filthy foot with his stick. "C'mon. Get up, Bud. Can't crash here. You're not supposed to be part of the scenery."
Rhys-Jones was dead.
Rhys-Jones watched the sun go down. A crimson ball of cotton. Green spots in his eyes. He drank the rest of the whiskey and watched the city lights come on. Palm fronds rattled above him. Then he fell over and passed out, thinking he was dead.
He dreamed of deliverance.
Borne high above storm clouds on the wings of his daughter's seaplane, soaring over blue thunderheads, he heard the motors throb with soothing rhythms as their propellers changed pitch and the overall drone. It was better than a mother's heartbeat. He felt safe and secure upon this surreal bosom of sound.
"Wake up, Skipper."
"Where are we, dollbaby?"
"Port bow. Cabo Verde Light."
He saw what was left of the old lighthouse. Rusted tension rods rose from charred rubble. They resembled the grasping talons of a hideous iron specter imprisoned in brick and mortar. Surviving timbers were rotted and gone to ground. He sighed. No one had rebuilt the lighthouse during his long absence in Mexico.
"Bad dream?"
"No. Good dream."
"We're almost there."
Their eyes matched the color of the clouds they were descending through. Gray now. Suddenly the wiper blades were swabbing rain from the windscreen.
"I love you, dollbaby."
"I love you too, Daddy."
The Albatross began its final approach homeward, banking wide, and humming from the depths of its great heart.
*
The Metro cop found the bum asleep on the Coppertone bench. Shoeless, pockets turned out. Odd crap strewn from a trampled knapsack. The cop whacked one filthy foot with his stick. "C'mon. Get up, Bud. Can't crash here. You're not supposed to be part of the scenery."
Rhys-Jones was dead.
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